Kiss of Death
by Tedd.E.Bare
Summary: Contains S3 finale spoilers. Rollo accepts the Emperor's offer. Follows the story of one important person over winter months after Ragnar Lothbrok leaves Paris behind. (RolloXGisla) rated M for sexual content.


Thank you for choosing to read Kiss of Death, please see profile page for general disclaimer of ownership or restricted characters, settings and the like. I write for fun.

I'm totally on board with Rollo in Paris, marrying Princess Gisla and doing their own thing. Count Odo freaked me out from the moment he popped up on screen, and right from the moment Gisla and Rollo locked eyes (you know, right before he got thrown off a ladder...) I figured the writers has SOMETHING in store for them. Plus the Emperor is a bit of a numpty and I can see his actions towards his daughter coming back to bite him in he ass. Plus I also really just want to see Gisla decked out in Shield Maiden clothing with her hair braided (i can't imagine she'd be okay with that undercut look..), sword in hand, looking like a ferocious kitten as she fights next to Rollo "crazy ass fighting bear" Lothbrok. Anyways... enjoy and PLEASE review after you've finished, I promise I can handle flames!

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Princess Gisla cannot stand her Pagan husband. She hates her father even more for demanding she marry him.

Less than a month after their wedding, she found herself on the road north, tucked away in a carriage, surrounded by gold, jewels and her own grief. Her father's only child, shipped off to a part of the country that she had not visited since she was a child. Her brutish husband rides at the front of his warriors, guided by scouts and the Wanderer who speaks her Frankish tongue. She is partially grateful for the strange Wanderer, who helps her communicate with the people she is forced to live amongst, helps her to be understood by her husband. She does not understand their ways, from their false gods, to the way their society is structured. Her husband is a brother to the Northern King Ragnar, yet he is not called a Prince, he only took the title of Earl upon marrying her, and even then, the title appears to mean little to him.

On nights when they stop to camp, she finds herself watching the bear she was forced to marry, watching the way he moves about the camp, speaking, talking, drinking and laughing with his men. He always returns to her side though, stalwart as she is by the small fire that keeps her warm. One cold evening, as the wind brings a chill that suggests that winter has begun to settle; he wraps a new fur around her shivering frame, and tucks her into his side. She is not used to the comfort he clearly intends to provide for her, and she finds herself stiffening as his arm wraps around her shoulders. She stiffens whenever he touches her in the view of others. It only took once for her to realise that physical intimacy was not something highly prized by the Pagan Northerners; she was still recovering from the shock of seeing one particular act occur on the table where she had been eating only moments earlier.

He laughs at her when she blushes, clearly amused that she is so unaccustomed to their ways. He laughs only loud enough for her to hear, his grin hidden behind his beard as he pokes her side, an attempt to get her to relax. She tries to keep her response to a minimum, but he pokes her in spots he has found make her squirm, she ends up wriggling into his side to escape his tickling fingers. He speaks something in his tongue, words she cannot decipher, but the tone is calm, soothing, and even affectionate. The men playing their music by a fire a few feet away have begun to sing, the rest of the Pagans join, her husband too. The few Frankish soldiers accompanying them north sit around their own fire, huddled out of the cold, watching the Northmen sing and dance as the night goes on.

Tucked into her husband as she is, she can hear his voice waft over her as he joins the others, the words flows, but they are harsh and guttural, and she guesses that they sing to their false gods, of their Odin and the Great Hall that is a poor substitute to the real Heaven. The Wanderer has come to sit opposite them, watching the crowd, watching Rollo and her, his little wife as the song gains momentum. With a goblet in the hand he doesn't have around her, Rollo raises his arm and shouts a toast as the song ends, and the Pagans tip their own cups back, emptying them.

'What were the words of their song?' she calls across the fire to the only one who decipher it for her.

The Wanderer smiles at her, 'That song was the tale of Ask and Embla; the first man and woman of Earth. The Northerners believe that the gods made man and woman from the wood of two trees found on a beach. Odin All-Father, and his two brothers Vili and Vé bestowed life, movement, intelligence, the senses and purpose to the first humans, who went on to be ancestors for all of mankind. The song is a reminder to the Northerners, to remind them that their gods have given them a purpose in life and that whilst the gods watch over them all, it is their actions in life that decide whether or not they are worthy to enter Valhalla, the hall of the gods, after death.'

Gisla is sure her eyebrows have disappeared into her hair, and she can feel her husband's eyes on her as he translates his explanation back to him. She schools her expression to one that is less surprised, and more stoic, more befitting the royalty that she is. Another throaty song starts up with the musicians, but fewer join in and her husband has not taken his eyes off her. The sun is long set, and she knows it's nearing bedtime, their tent set up nearby to offer scant privacy amongst the strange North people who happily copulate in the open air. Her husband knows she is adverse to such displays and has not made much of an attempt to be affectionate to her when surrounded by others during the day or in the evenings. In their tent is a different story, he openly enjoys her when they are alone.

He tugs her hand until they are both standing and she knows she must follow. Darting through the throng of people, he holds open the tent flap as she enters; glad to leave the heady drumming on the other side of the leather. Two fragrant candles accompany her Holy Cross, and she ducks around her Bear of a husband to go pray. She isn't sure if he knows she extends her prayers tenfold to reduce the amount of time she must spend with him, but no matter how long she prays he waits patiently behind her, standing as she kneels to pray to the Lord for her freedom.

When she is done praying, she turns to him, he has not moved, but to tilt his head to observe her. She knows he can see her fear, even now after a few weeks of sharing the marriage bed with him. She knows he could easily force her, but from the very start, from their wedding onwards, he takes their nights slowly, always starting with a long, slow kiss before taking her. She feels the pains deep within her belly and knows she will be bleeding come morning, but that will not stop her husband tonight.

He drops the new fur from her shoulders as his lips meet hers, one strong arm wrapping around her waist, and the other sliding slowly down her leg, intent on lifting the fabric of her dress. He does not stop lifting her skirts when he reaches her waist, instead lifts and tugs until her whole gown is over her head, leaving her with only her under cloths and stockinged feet. She knows there is no point covering herself, Rollo enjoys looking at her, to touch and to paw her at like the beast she thinks he is. He nudges her to their makeshift bed; she complies because she can do nothing else. Like with his kisses, he takes her slowly, she is now used to the pain that comes with lying with her husband, but tonight the pain is magnified with the growing aches in her lower belly.

He halts when she groans in pain; normally he keeps going until he moans his release, before making her do the same with his fingers. He pulls himself out of her, muttering something in concern, rubbing his hands over her, looking for injury. Her hands go to her belly, where the worst of the cramps have set in. He puts his hands over hers, kneeling over her body which has curled up amongst the bed of straw and furs. She watches him as he stands, pulling his trousers up his legs and going to the tent opening. He calls out and within a few moments there's a woman hurrying in. Gisla pulls a fur up to hide herself, but no one else joins them. She recognises the woman as a warrior, one of the strange North women that the Wanderer calls "Shield Maidens", though for all appearances these women are not maidens, but mothers; lovers and wives of the men.

Rollo speaks to the woman before she replies in their language and he leaves the two women alone in the tent, tugging a shirt on before leaving. The woman comes closer, pours a goblet of hot wine and presses it into her hand, miming for her to drink it. Gisla takes a sip of the wine, relishing the way it feels as it goes down her throat. The warmth pools in her stomach as she continues to drink, the ache in her belly still not subsiding even with the hot wine. Minutes pass, but he returns to her, a deep bowl filled with steaming water in his hands. The Shield Maiden takes the bowl and cloths from him, and shoos him to the other side of the tent. After wetting a cloth in the hot water, the warrior pulls her gently off the bed and onto the floor, tugging the large fur that she had wrapped around herself. She fights at first, but Gisla knows the woman warrior is fierce and outmatches her in strength, the fur is tugged up her body, baring her from the waist down. The wet cloth is pressed to her belly, where it smarts against her skin, but the other woman holds her in place as she squirms like a babe.

Eventually the heat seeps into her body, loosening the tension that comes to announce her monthly bleeding. Gisla wants to cry as the pain in her belly is substituted with pain growing in her lower back, but the Shield Maiden appears to have foreseen that and also applies hot, wet cloths on her spine. Rollo stays silent in his corner of the tent, tried to intervene earlier, but the snarling of the woman applying wet cloths to his wife's sore belly sent him back, he will not finish in her tonight.

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The Shield Maiden stays with her all night, even after Rollo muttered something in their Northern language and reclaimed his bed to sleep. The two women stay on the straw-strewn floor, the woman only leaving Gisla alone when she goes to reheat the bowl of water. She sleeps intermittently that night, the pangs coming back every few hours, just as they did prior to her marriage. Back then her maids would massage her back, use their hands to ease the soreness, and sit her in front of a fire to soak up the warmth when the pains were so bad she couldn't walk.

When morning comes, the warrior is fast asleep, Gisla's head in her lap. She opens her eyes and stills, observing the older woman from where she lies, can see scars on her face and bare arms, her half shorn head revealing black markings patterning her skull and neck. She closes her eyes again, and lets sleep come again.

As she opens her eyes again, an indeterminable time later, her head is not supported by the legs of a female warrior, instead a fur is bundled up, and she has been covered with another warm fur to keep her from getting cold. She twists her head, to find her husband looking down from their bed, grinning at her. She can feel the sticky liquid between her legs and knows she has begun to bleed, the pains from the night before were not a false prophet.

Her husband surprises her, as the rest of the camp makes to pack up and continue on, he stays with her, even going so far as to get her a fresh bowl of hot water and clean cloths to clean herself with. Then he bundles her into her carriage before organising the pack-up of everything else.

She bleeds for the remainder of the week, virtually until they arrive at the stronghold that is to be their new home. She organises the set-up of the chapel, with the help of the Wanderer, she partakes in the organisation of who goes where, and when a free moment arises, sets up her parlour in her new bedroom. A huge welcoming feast is organised, the Northerners already putting the kitchen to use as they mix, knead and cook the meal that will feed all who journeyed to the stronghold.

Her husband struts towards the dinner table with her on his arm, they have the two high seats of honour, the seat to her left had always been filled by her father, but after his awful betrayal, she thinks it's fitting to replace him with the bear he married her off to. Her father did not even offer to join them in the journey, instead sending an envoy in his place, to report back to the Emperor after they settled in.

The feast begins and it's not long until everyone in the room, aside from her, has had too much wine, the Northern men and women eat and drink as they laugh and grope one another. Her husband is cheery, talking loudly to the men nearby, once more talking in their guttural tongue. She stays silent, poised and sensible. She knows her duty and she will not abandon it for the sake of hospitality, though she does manage to accept half a dozen glasses of wine over the course of the evening. As evening once more draws in, she finds a sense of déjà-vu setting in, she knows her duty will extend to their new bedroom, and now her bleeding has finished, she cannot shirk the task.

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Once the door to their room closes, he pushes her up against it, kissing her deeply and slowly. The fire lit in the room earlier has heated the air, making the atmosphere heady and hazy. For once she abandons her usual demeanour. The alcohol she consumed makes her confident and she tries to give as good as she gets from her husband. Their kiss turns into a contest, he bears down on her and she bites his lip; she tugs his hair and he pokes where he knows she will wriggle. She is the one to pull her skirts up, aids him in pulling them over her head. She is also the one who reaches for his shirt, is the one who pulls it over his head. Other aspects of her marriage have her miserable, but when they are alone together, Gisla feels like she has someone who wants to know her, even if he is a giant monster who believes in Pagan gods and kills for fun when he gets into bear-mode.

Tonight he spends time getting her worked up, breathless and needy before taking her. He is tugging at skin with his teeth, using his hands to frustrate her until she is the one pulling him on top of her. Then he towers over her, and for the first time she isn't afraid of him, isn't afraid of what he does to her, isn't afraid to be his wife. She doesn't register the pain when he enters her, but instead keeps her gaze locked with his as he starts to move. She finds her thoughts turning towards God, and how he blessed the marriage of Adam and Eve and blessed their lives with children, of Esther and Xerxes, two people from different cultures and religions, married and came to an understanding for her people's sake. Esther who put her whole life on the line to do the Lord's will, who married a man who divorced his last wife for disobedience.

Her mind switches back to the task her husband is undertaking when he pokes her side again and joins his mouth to hers. Their movements have gone from languid and slow to uneven and hurried strokes as they struggle to finish. Her husband appears to know what he is doing as he reaches a hand between them to touch her, making her jolt and cry out, arch her back and moan as he picks up the pace even more. She arches her back further as the feeling mounts, he pounds into her, making the bed shake and her tremble. She finishes with a shout as a wave of pulses come from within, tipping him over the edge too; he leans over and groans his release, emptying himself in her.

The grin that so often adorns his face reappears as he presses kisses to her face, they are still joined, still sweaty and although she can feel he is not hard, she is still pulsing around him, her hips still knocking up to meet his. One of his hands cups her face as he continues to kiss her, the other slowly coasting down her body, over her breasts, stomach, belly, right down to where they join. Leaving himself in her, he presses his hand over her until she is squirming again, her hips knocking into his more ferociously, squeezing around him until she can feel him hardening up again. Their thighs are a mess of their juices, but when Rollo tucks her knees up and begins to push into her again, neither care.

As morning arrives, she nestles further into the warmth of the bed, the now-familiar furs lulling her to rest with ease, the body she sides up to wraps an arm around her naked waist, pulling her closer. Her huge husband is advantageous in one respect, she shall not want for warmth on wintery nights. The dawn has only just arrived, so they lay in bed awhile, her back tucked into his chest, his arm snaked over her waist and a hand resting over her breast. She can feel him behind her, and when he begins to move, she tries to roll so she can face him, but he holds her in place.

Her heart starts to pound, and she is sure he can feel it beating because he presses a kiss to her temple, a move that he appears to intend to have reassured her. His hand coasts down from her breast and lifts her leg, just high enough for him to move in between her. She feels his fingers in her first, slowly easing her into the new position he wants them to try. Her hips start to roll again, pressing herself back instead of forwards; he grunts his approval and his fingers move faster amidst her. She lacks something and inexplicably she rolls onto her front, pulling him along with her, until his weight is pushing her into the furs. He pokes her side as he laughs and both his hands are usable now. Pulling her hips up he enters her and leans over her back, pressing a kiss to the base of her neck. Her head aches from the wine, but as he pounds into her from behind, she doesn't feel so sickly.

After her Morning Prayer, they walk down to breakfast, meeting the Wanderer and a small handful of men and women that appear to be in Rollo's inner circle, over toasted bread and gruel they map out where provisions will be stored for winter, and where they will all be housed, where animals will be sheltered and which part of the nearby river is easiest to draw water, and which part supports building of boats. She realises her husband is talented in politics, has the ability to strategise to find a good middle ground for all parties and plan for a long, hard winter. He's still a brute.

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Days pass by until they become weeks, winter takes its hold and Gisla and Rollo settle into their married life. The settlement thrives under their combined management and the translation help of the Wanderer. With her help, Rollo learns more of the Frankish tongue, and in return she makes the attempt to speak some of his guttural language. Although officially baptised by the Saxon clergy, Rollo makes no attempt to develop his Christian faith, instead he continues the traditions of his Pagan people, much to her horror.

Though they lie together often, she remains without child, and her monthly bleeds come with as much pain as always. Rollo has taken to showering her with small gifts, a new dress, a brooch, polished metal that shows her reflection, a delicately wrought iron cross for her chapel, smithed by his people for hers. This morning's gift has her puzzled, he left her early in the morning with a kiss pressed to her hair, returned as she was bathing with a newly sewn tunic and… a pair of pants. She did not bother to hide her confusion as he laid out the clothes for her, his familiar grin adorning his face.

In Frankish he managed to stutter out that it was for today, and that he had another surprise for her after they broke their fast. Hesitatingly she pulled on the new clothes, pleased to find they were softer than they looked, and fit better than she had assumed. In the reflection she realised she looked just like the warrior women of his people, minus the shaved hair and skin markings. She looks at her husband to find that he's staring at her with pride. He goes on to mutter something in his own tongue, but from the tone he speaks in, she imagines he speaks words to the effect of how he likes her in the new clothes, and tries to not think about how his tone also suggests how he would like to take her out of them too.

Breakfast is hot porridge and fresh warm milk; the day outside still carries the chill from the previous night's snow. Rollo's surprise requires the aid of the Wanderer to explain, the man translating for her as they head outdoors. Rollo believes that his wife's sharp tongue and quick wit should be matched with fighting skills to match. The reason for her tunic and pants are to make her training sessions easier. Fighting in a dress is not something easily done. They reach the courtyard where the smiths work to find that Rollo has commissioned a special training sword for her. As her years of royalty meant the heaviest thing she carried was a basket of fruit as alms for the poor, she has the strength of a child when it comes to weaponry.

She trains until lunchtime, learning to hold her sword, how to hold it up, Rollo leaves her training to three of his best Shield Maidens, choosing to watch from the sidelines, letting the women teach his woman, letting the Wanderer be the emissary between their languages. Although she can see Rollo wanted the task, she is glad he isn't taking the reins on her training, the women teaching her are similar in size and even witnessing their siege on Paris, she knows that women fight far differently to the men. It's all about playing to your strengths.

Lunch has the women steer her to a seat as they share a meal. Rollo lets his grin slide into a smirk as the warriors speak on how to style the hair of their fledgling warrior princess so that she can train without having to sweep her long locks out of her eyes every time she swivels. After a few moments of confusion she sits still enough for the women to tug her hair into sections, and they begin to braid her hair in the Viking fashion as she finishes snacking on a delicious apple pie.

Her training continues well into the afternoon, she's been thrown down into the mud more times than she can count, but still she rises, training sword in hand, much to the very clear pleasure of her husband who still watches her training from the sidelines as he organises the movement of a herd of goats. The women too are pleased with her dedication, pointing out postures and grips that will reduce how quickly she tires. By nightfall she has learnt to block a swiping blow and jab in attack, slashing forward towards her opponent, more than anything though, she is exhausted from the day's efforts, and has a feeling that tomorrow will hold more of the same.

Thankfully the swords they're working with aren't sharp enough to cut through skin, and the Shield Maidens were using the flat of their swords in their hits, but Gisla knows she will wake in the morn with bruises decorating her entire body. The day exhausts her so much she falls asleep at dinner, falling asleep only a few bites in, letting her head fall heavily onto the sturdy wooden table, much to the amusement of her husband, who tugs her towards him and repositions her so she is tucked up against him. He carries her to bed after dinner; she barely wakes when he removes her boots and doesn't stir when he tucks himself in next to her.

The next day the women take it even easier on her, they can see the bruises beginning to form on her fair skin, and her eyes crinkle, wincing with every step she takes due to falling on her hip weirdly the day before. Her task for the day is to watch and mimic. The three warrior women take turns fighting in pairs with the one sitting out pointing out the manoeuvres to her, before they mimic them. Rollo is absent today, out discussing something with the men who work the fields to grow winter vegetables.

As they take a break to rehydrate, Gisla's thoughts turn to her father, for the first time in weeks. She had written him off the day of her wedding, when he did not leap to her defence, instead willingly selling her off to the bearded Northman who grinned at her, even as she spat vitriol in his direction, calling him all manner of foul names. She thinks of Count Odo and her lady-in-waiting who acquiesced to being his lover. A week after her wedding, married noblewomen all congregated in the ladies chamber, the subject of the day being the marriage bed. The older women in the room had the role of comforting the younger generation, teaching them techniques to quicken children in the womb, easing pains after the husbands had taken their liberties and how to prepare for the births. One of the women had whispered in her ear to look at the way in which her lady in waiting moved about the room. More whispers told her to look at the wrists, the neck and take note of the black bruises that adorned her like jewellery. Other whispers pointed at her extra-marital relationship with the Count, about how the Count's first wife died mysteriously within the first year of their marriage, how the Count liked to take his lovers and the despot he was when it came to his "affections".

She thanked the Lord in that moment that she had firmly rebuffed all of Count Odo's affections, and declined all his proposals of marriage. She might have then been married off to the foreign warlord who worshipped a false set of gods, but at least her oafish new husband did not take pleasure in hurting his wife. She knew her time in the city of Paris would come to an end, so she learnt all she could in that session with her fellow Christian ladies.

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Winter does not hit the land of Francia as harshly as the far northern lands of the Vikings, the first thaw of spring brings with it warmth that promises a warm summer, and that is the day the men begin to hone their weaponry and fighting skills in preparation for their raiding season. Gisla's training continued for the entire winter, her strength growing to accompany her skills. One afternoon, when the snow melt had turned the ground to slush, her morning training session was attended by more people than she had seen since they travelled to this region nearly five months prior.

The Shield Maidens has told her that the day's training was mixed-gender, that women would fight the men, they would observe each other's fighting techniques and work together in teams to develop more effective fighting, stronger shield walls and partake in games to bring some levity. Gisla's role was to observe the Viking people, to watch how they would instil fear in their enemies, to watch her husband organise the brutish people he commanded. She spends some time sitting next to the blacksmith's fire letting the warmth keep her from the chilly wind that still blusters through the stronghold.

They work through lunch and then into the early afternoon, their serious demeanours shift as they work through all that needs organising. The fights become less informative and more competitive, more fun. The women manage to convince Gisla to join them in light hearted fights, only after they braid her hair that she studiously brushes out each night. Rollo is nowhere in sight, but she knows he's here somewhere, practicing his fighting with men he is closer to matching in terms of strength and skill.

The Wanderer meanders over to her, letting her know that their fighting games are about to start, games that others can place bets on, games for families and games for lovers and couples. One such game she'll be expected to participate in is one with Rollo. She asks what would happen if she refused to partake in such brutish activities, if her husband would be shamed by her non-compliance. The Wanderer tells her that there would be no shame befalling her husband, but instead on her father and her father's people, for it would be a sign that they did not adequately prepare her to defend herself before reaching adulthood. Gisla wonders whether her father would care if she shamed him by not fighting for his pride.

In the end she weighs up her options and realises her father would not care if she shamed him by not fighting her husband. Not once over the entire winter had he sent an envoy to see that she was safe, cared for or even alive. In all sense, her beloved father had abandoned her, leaving her with only the Beloved Father to turn to. She spends a moment or two in silent prayer to the Lord, praying for guidance. The Wanderer has not moved from his spot at her side, and upon opening her eyes, he points out her husband, who is shirtless and covered in sweat. She takes it for the sign it appears to be and nods her thanks to the Wanderer as she picks up her new sword, heavier than her first training sword, but still leagues from the heavy swords that Rollo and his men use.

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The game is called "Kiss of Death" and the Wanderer has to translate that, the name causing a ripple of shock to go through her. The other games have all but been exhausted; leaving the last game of the day, Kiss of Death, the one fighting game designed for lovers and married couples. The rules are simple, fight to the ability of the weaker of the two, do not aim to injure and for every jab or blow that would have been fatal the one who delivers it steals a kiss from their lover before continuing.

One of the maidens drags her man out onto the courtyard and they begin to fight. Being so close shows Gisla how brutal these people can be, that she is still not used to their foreign ways. A nudge on her elbow signals the arrival of her husband, and she has made up her mind. Gathering all of her courage she turns to Rollo and walks backwards into the courtyard, keeping eye contact with him as he follows her out. Crossing herself, she lifts her sword and takes a deep breath, knowing she is about to lose spectacularly.

The first few blows he delivers are gentle, clearly trying to work out her ability level, then when she parries a blow from the side he picks up the pace, striking like lightning and landing his sword on her shoulder, a move that would have removed her head had it been a real fight. She knows it's coming, but the kiss still surprises her. He wins the next dozen kisses, potential blows handing on her head, heart, back, legs and arms. The Wanderer long ago mentioned that Rollo fought like a crazy bear, and she can see it in the way he moves around her, even after hours practicing his fighting amongst the men, even though he's covered in grime, mud, sweat and blood, he still fights on. She is exhausted and she's only been involved in it for the past hour, her stamina clearly not able to keep up with his.

He can see that she is out of energy, but he knows she's determined to keep trying, so he pushes her. It's a learning curve for them both, he gets to see how she's matching her fighting skills to that of her wit, and she gets to see her bear fighting up close, see how he moves and how his ruthlessness lives up to his reputation.

She ends up in the mud once more, and her husband to his knees to claim his kiss that he has won. He pulls her up, and before the go again, he wipes the mud from her forehead, his unflappable grin as he looks at her with pride, his little warrior princess.

They do not even notice that they are the only couple left fighting, that everyone else has stopped to watch the show they're putting on. Gisla manages to catch the eye of one of the women who spent their winter training her, the woman motions to her hip, where her belt is tied, the same belt Gisla wears over her tunic, with the same weaponry as all other women. A dagger is kept in the folds, the Shield Maidens entrusted her with it a month before the thaw, teaching her how to use it in close quarter combat, where to aim and how to hold it as she delivered a self-defensive blow. It was to be used if she were ever assaulted, or abused by anyone.

She turns from her husband as he dusts off his trousers, preparing for the next round, she twists her belt until the handle peeks out, ready to grab for a last resort. She turns back to Rollo and grins, coming close, stalking towards him the way she was taught, body low, legs bent and moving with caution and balance. She fights in earnest, a surge of adrenaline giving her the energy she needs to get under his defences. Somehow she ends up between his chest and his sword, her own sword-wielding right arm pinned down by her husband's strong grip. He thinks he won the round, until she motions between them, her short dagger pressed flat against his chest, delivering what would have been a painful, if not fatal blow.

Gisla feels a sense of pride and accomplishment as her husband bends his head down to hers, ready for her to deliver her winning kiss of death. She pecks his lips, nothing like the long drawn out kisses he took when he won. He laughs and grins at her, holding her dagger hand up to the crowd, announcing her as the winner of the round in his own tongue. They cheer for her, the Frankish princess who ferociously defended herself from the Bear. The day's excitement all but over as the cooks announce they have the feast ready, with plenty of mead and wine to go around. The others pour into the hall, eager to begin to fill their bellies. Rollo and Gisla stay out in the courtyard a moment, he examines her dagger, a dainty thing, and its bone handle has a carved bear on it. He hands it back to her and watches as she tucks it back into the folds of her tunic belt, folding the fabric over it to keep it safe.

He tells her she did well; she honoured herself by fighting him. She is confused by his words, and so does not reply. He pulls her back to him and steals another kiss, a deep one, one that he often shares with her. She chooses not to tell him in that moment that she carries his child, one that quickened within her only a few days earlier, she will wait till the morrow to tell her bear. He leads her to the dining hall, where the noise, laughter and food already spill out into the adjoining rooms.

They make their way towards their table, past the strange Wanderer, past the women who taught her to fight, past the men who forged her swords and fight under her husband, he holds her hand up like a victor and announces to the crowd, a toast for the little Warrior Princess Gisla.

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